EQUIPMENT: 4 Daggers. (12gp). (One hung at his side in plain view, one secreted up his left sleeve, another concealed in his right boot, yet another strapped at the nape of his neck). (Â€ÂœWhy, I am practically unarmed, good sir! We mages are peaceful, scholarly souls. Might I perchance give the back of my neck the merest scratch..?Â€Â)

Waterskin. (1gp).((Sigh!) Â€ÂœOne must drink water to live...Â€Â)

Flask of wine. (2gp).((Grins): Â€Âœ...but one drinks wine to make life worth the living!Â€Â)

Backpack. (3gp).(Â€ÂœDratted, cumbersome thing! I really must hire a man to attend to such manual unpleasantness...Â€Â)

Rations, 1 week. (7gp). A few small bread rolls, a round of pleasantly-tangy hard cheese, a few handfuls of dried fruit, an apple or two, a fistful of cured wild boar sausages, etc.)(Â€ÂœIron rations? Good Gods, my dear fellow, IÂ€Â™d rather starve...Â€Â)

String of garlic. (5gp). (Somewhat picked at; HeÂ€Â™s been using the occasional clove to add a soupson of flavour to the companyÂ€Â™s otherwise-dreary meals...)(Â€ÂœYou may call it chicken stew, my dear fellow! I can but regard it as a tragically-drowned fowl deserving of a better send-off than the company of stale turnips and Â€Â“ IÂ€Â™m not even sure what that is. These little white-and-purple jewels may serve to provide just that..!Â€Â)

Scroll: Jump. (25gp). (Â€ÂœAh. Pursuit: UPSIDAISY!!Â€Â)

Tinderbox. (2gp).(Â€ÂœOooh, catch, you cursed thing! CATCH! Nine shaved dwarfs, but thereÂ€Â™s got to be an easier way to start a fire...Â€Â)

Oil, Flask. (2gp).(Â€Âœ...but it wouldnÂ€Â™t do for the old girl to run out of flicker on us, would it? IÂ€Â™m all for the dark, but there are limits...Â€Â)

TOTAL WEIGHT: 50 (Incl. spellbook).

BACKGROUND:No-one seems to be entirely sure when Â†delwynn fell in with the Grey Hart, or why, but the young magician has been lurking on the fringes of the company for some time now, despite the occasional curse and hurled missile sent his way, that he has so far managed (largely) to avoid.

Of medium height, slim of build, with sandy-brown hair framing an affable, smiling face (that is swift to take on a shrewd, watchful look when he thinks youÂ€Â™re not looking at him), he is clearly educated Â€Â“ cultured even Â€Â“ at least that is the impression he tries to give. He certainly affects a cultivated, scholarly manner, but thereÂ€Â™s more than a little of the mountebank about him. Keep your hand on your purse and an eye on your girl when Â†delwynnÂ€Â™s around Â€Â“ chances are heÂ€Â™s after both, a predatory, calculating look in his pale blue eyes which has earned him the occasional blacked eye and split lip from his comrades, although he is swift to bounce back, insisting it was all a misunderstanding and falling over himself to be agreeable to his former antagonists (while quietly marking their names for future retribution...)

He spends a lot of time pouring over his (admittedly quite impressive-looking) spellbook, although on occasion he seems a little wary Â€Â“ even nervous Â€Â“ of it. Surely it couldnÂ€Â™t be that it doesnÂ€Â™t belong to him, could it?

Nonetheless, he has proved himself on occasion to be a shrewd and capable spell-caster, enough to ensure Sir Trevor has seen fit to permit his continued presence in the ranks of the Grey Hart, despite the occasional Â€Â“ heh Â€Â“ Â€Â˜misunderstandingÂ€Â™ arising between him and his fellow sell-swords.

Â€ÂœRuins, you say? Hmm. Yes, potentially interesting, I suppose. I may perhaps join you in investigating them... should I wake up in time... and after a proper breakfast, naturally...

In the meantime fear not, my bold companions. I shall be certain to keep a close and watchful eye on any belongings you may see fit to leave behind...Â€Â

BackgroundMalaveque is an outcast Elf, in part due to his brooding and sarcastic nature and also his deformed appearance, the result of an ambitious alchemy experiment gone wrong as an adolescent. His skin is marred by acid burns from the right half of his face across his chest and down his right arm. His right hand is functional, but badly scarred, leaving him somewhat weak. He has lost his hair on the right side where only scars remain, while on the left it grows unkempt due to inattention. Driven out by his own people, he has sought various employment in order to fund continued magical studies. He has been with the mercenary band for about a year, and has been considering leaving as the rewards have been lacking.

Background:No one knows The Herald's true name or city of origin. It's said he wanders from place to place, looking for battle on the fringes of civilization. He is loathe to fight other Men, as he considers himself the Champion of Mankind, chosen by the Gods to wipe all Beastmen and other heathens (he tolerates Elf and Dwarf, but just barely) from the face of the earth. Killing other Men in self-defense, on the other hand, is an acceptable course of action.

The Herald is quite lax on enforcing the rules of any temporal church, nor is he too keen on converting the unbelieving Man. His purpose is plain: Beastmen will never accept the Gods, so they must be obliterated. When facing those types, his zeal (i.e. lust for battle) shines like a beacon.

He speaks the language of most Beastmen (Orc, Goblin, and Ogre, to be sure. A smattering of Kobold, as he's troubled by most of the fricatives common to that language) but if he learned them for any reason other than to taunt his enemies before smashing them to pieces with his mace Solais ("Light" in some ancient tongue, he claims), it's not at all clear why.